


Lessons in Anatomy

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, F/M, Jk not studying they get distracted, Smut, Studying, UST, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-06-06 16:37:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6761764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz claims he's more of a hands-on learner. Jemma, tired of him distracting her from studying for their anatomy exam, demands that he prove it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“It’s a hopeless cause, Simmons,” Fitz sighs, shutting his textbook and tossing it onto the floor beside the bed. 

“We have twelve hours until the exam, Fitz, that’s eons of studying time,” Jemma replies without looking up from her flashcards. “If you ace this one, you might be in contention for the top of the class.” 

“What’s the point?” he groans, rolling over onto his stomach to mirror her and nudging her shoulder gently. If he can’t concentrate, history shows, he’s dragging her down with him. “I already know you’re on top, so it’s not even worth trying to jockey for the spot.”

“Oh, Fitz, that’s almost sweet!”

“If it were Douglass or Milton--” 

She snorts. “I’d be surprised if Milton ranks in the top 50% of the class.” 

“Simmons! You are vicious. You did date the man, remember.” 

“It’s true though.” 

“It is true.” He waits long enough before her eyes have shifted back into studying position before he continues, “I can’t learn from books anyway. I need to learn with my hands.” 

“First of all, that would be quite an asset for a field agent. And secondly, that’s preposterous, Fitz, you’d never have made it this far in the Academy on brains alone--” 

“Have you ever _actually_ seen me study, Simmons?” 

She finally looks up, irritation breaking her focus. She studies him for a moment, then pushes herself up and onto her back and stretches a hand across the covers in front of him. “Prove it.” 

He looks at it nonplussed. “Sorry?” 

“If you’re such a tactile learner, prove you’re ready for tomorrow’s exam. Run me through the anatomy of the hand.” 

He hesitates. For all their lack of physical boundaries, intentional touching is not exactly a territory they have navigated. But she looks so damn self-righteous staring at him down her arm that he can’t back down. 

“There are 27 bones in the human hand,” he says, deciding to start with the fact that any simpleton would know. “The phalanges are in the fingers themselves. Distal phalanges, at the tips--” He taps each of her fingertips with his index finger. “Followed by the intermediate and the proximal phalanges. The metacarpals are under here--” He brushes a finger across her palm and watches as her fingers flex inward at the sensation. “And the carpals where the hand meets the wrist.” 

He looks up, his finger hovering a few centimeters above her skin. She is watching him, lips slightly parted. When she says nothing, he lowers his finger to brush from her palm up over her wrist. “The flexors on the underside of the forearm are connected by tendons to --”

“Insert,” Jemma murmurs. His eyes flick up to hers and she blushes slightly. “They prefer that you say the flexors insert by tendons.” 

“Right.” Fitz clears his throat and starts the path of his finger again. “The flexors insert by tendons to the phalanges of the fingers. Without flexors, you’d be unable to do this.” He returns to the tip of her fingers and bends them inwards, his thumb resting on the soft pad at the top of her hand so her curling fingers wrap around it. His pinky slips under her hand and strokes back and forth. “The extensors on the outside of your forearm allow for the straightening of your fingers.” 

Her fingers stretch out automatically as he speaks. 

“The hand is easy,” she says in a strangled voice as if attempting to regain some modicum of control. “Tell me the arm.” 

He’s breathing much faster than he was a moment ago and they’ve definitely fully abandoned studying now. 

He begins drawing his middle finger along her wrist. The skin is unbearably soft and warm, though her hands had been cold. 

“The median nerve will run all the way up your arm to your brachial plexus. These little veins--” He strokes each of the blue lines slowly. “They’re branches of your radial artery. If we follow the ridge of this muscle up, we’re passing over the brachioradialis muscle.” 

She wriggles as he reaches the inside of her elbow and he pauses. “Don’t stop,” she says breathlessly, then flushes again. “It tickled.” 

“The crease of the inner elbow,” he continues quickly, “is called the cubital fossa.” 

He reaches the sleeve of her T-shirt and snags the fabric slightly on his finger before passing over it and up to her shoulder. There are dozens of muscles and veins and bones he should be mentioning, but he’s drawn to her collar bone. 

“The clavicle is a connection between the shoulderblades and the br-- ah, the sternum.” Best not use the word “breastbone” if he wants to make it off this bed without her noticing a tent in his pants. Though maybe that’s _not_ what he wants... He notices then how hot her skin is, the heat radiating up to his chest, quite a surprise considering how cold Simmons seems to constantly run. “This is your platysma,” he murmurs, sliding up and over the promontory muscle of her neck and settling into the dip at the base of her throat. “And this is the, uh, the--”

“The breastbone, Fitz,” she says with slight exasperation. “You have one too, you know.” 

He is now hovering over her with his entire torso, propping himself up on the forearm that isn’t currently tracing its way across his best friend’s body. 

He is pushing his luck, he knows, but his thigh is pressed against her hip and it only takes a slight drift of his hand before his finger settles over her heart, the pad of his fingertip pressing into the soft flesh that marks the top of her breast. Her heartbeat is maddeningly quick.

“The human heart,” he whispers, staring at a point on her cheek just below her eyes, “is enclosed in a double-membraned sac. It has four chambers and four valves, and, um--” 

Suddenly the downsides of this hands-on learning thing are presenting themselves as the dozens of other facts about the heart he’d known not five minutes ago have flown from his mind as feels her heartbeat. 

“The breastbone continues to about here--” He doesn’t dare linger between her breasts and carefully lifts his finger to skip over the dip of her bra under her shirt, but he still notes the rapid rise and fall of her chest, entirely inappropriate for someone who is not engaged in vigorous physical activity. He’s relieved, really, because he feels like a lech, panting over her, but her hand with which he’d started has risen to wrap around his tensed bicep and if he were able to speak in this moment he would call her out on the fact that she’s clearly as aroused as he is and she wouldn’t be able to deny it but he doesn’t trust himself to voice anything but science. 

“Here we’ve got lungs, liver, gallbladder, spleen, stomach, kidney, pancreas, small and large intestine--” he rushes, brushing his finger down over the dip between her ribs. 

He intends to halt on the skin of her stomach where her shirt has hiked up but he doesn’t have total control over his motions anymore. His finger slips on the top of her trousers and continues full-speed over the brown corduroy and down between her legs. 

“Fitz!” she moans, her hips actually lifting off the bed, chasing the pressure. 

He looks down at his hand, a finger snug against her crotch, then up to her, terrified. Their eyes meet and they leap apart. Jemma scrambles backwards, drawing her legs up to her chest. Fitz doesn’t know what to do with his hands, especially the one that was just -- so close to -- 

“Well, you were right, you seem to have quite a handle on human anatomy,” Jemma squeaks in an attempt to be professional, but the phrasing certainly doesn’t help. 

He wants to pursue the fact that he was right -- he’s not sure he’s ever heard her say that before -- but he’s trembling and there are matters to which he won’t be able to attend as long as he stays. 

“I’d best get to bed then. To sleep, I mean!” 

“Right you are!” Jemma fumbles for her notecards. “I’ll just take care of myself -- I mean, study myself--” 

He trips out of the room before they can make it any worse. 

Jemma, falling back against her pillows after he’s left, can’t help wondering if Fitz is as talented a tactile learner in ... other realms of human anatomy.


	2. A Helping Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz has an inconveniently-placed pulled muscle but Jemma, as the closest thing the Bus has to a doctor, is happy to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written in response to fitzsimmonsinthetardis's ask -- probably got more than you bargained for :P

Jemma had her eyes against a microscope when Fitz, Coulson, and Mike returned from their mission, but that didn’t mean she didn’t see the way Fitz was limping as he passed the lab.

He only made it halfway up the spiral staircase before she flew through the doors, lab coat flapping.

“Fitz!” she snapped. “Get down here this instant, you’re injured.”

“It’s nothing,” he muttered.

“You should have Agent Simmons check you out anyway, Agent Fitz,” Coulson said firmly, stopping Fitz’s climb with a hand on his shoulder. Jemma thought she saw Coulson and Mike exchange a slight smile before they continued onto the upper floor of the Bus.

“Well, let’s have a look, then,” Jemma chirped, bustling back into the lab with Fitz dragging behind her.

He dropped his backpack and tac vest by his lab bench and faced her, arms crossed.

“What seems to be the problem?” She stepped forward, lifting the bottom of his shirt to check his ribs for bruising.

“Simmons!” he yelped, slapping her hand away. “It’s fine, honestly. I’ll wait til we stop back at the Hub--”

“You can barely walk, Fitz. Don’t be stupid. Coulson agrees with me, and together we can make sure you don’t get dinner until you’ve been taken care of.”

“That’s your plan, starve me to death as a way to defend my health? Skye’ll be on my side, anyway, she’d sneak me snacks--”

She wasn’t backing down, though, so he squinted at a spot above her head and spoke with a slight grimace.

“We got in a bit of a tight spot and had to run away very quickly and I made an awkward turn and I pulled my -- my --” He gestured, seemingly stuck.

“Your...” Jemma frowned, then wrinkled her nose. “You didn’t injure your  _ penis _ , did you, Fitz?”

“I am  _ not  _ doing this with you!” he squeaked, rushing for the doors, but she caught his elbow.

“Fitz, I’m only trying to  _ help _ . Would it be easier if you could point to the injury?”

He glowered at the floor but nodded. She stepped back to give him space. Fitz hesitated, then raised a hand. Jemma’s gaze followed his finger as it floated in the air next to him, then around his back, before landing on his bum.

Jemma burst out laughing.

“It’s not funny, Simmons!” Fitz groaned, dropping his face into his hands.

“Come on, Fitz, it’s a little bit humorous. Just a bit?” she wheedled, trying to pry his hands away.

“Now will you leave me to suffer in peace?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, we’ve got to fix your arse up.” She started giggling again.

“What are you going to do, put it in a splint?”

Jemma bit her lip, seeming to realize just what she’d have to do. “I could...give you a massage?”

“No!” Fitz cried, backing away. “No  _ way _ , Simmons. I’m not having your hands on my bum--”

“You are if you don’t want permanent injury!” she said heatedly. “Fitz, I’ve taken physical therapy courses, you’ll feel loads better after, I promise.”

He continued to shake his head, petrified.

“It’ll be  _ relaxing _ ,” Jemma insisted. “I’ll do your shoulders too -- you’re always so tense. And it’s not like I’ll enjoy it either.”

“Great, thanks.”

“Well, shall we, then?”

“Not  _ here _ ,” he hissed, blushing furiously and looking at the glass doors and the other entrances. “Anyone could walk in.”

“Where would you rather we do it, on your bed?” she shot back.

“Here it is, then,” Fitz squeaked.

“I’ll tell Coulson we’re not to be disturbed.” She sent a quick text, then slipped her phone back into her lab pocket and looked at him expectantly. “Well, get undressed, Fitz, what are you waiting for?”

“I don’t need to be naked for this!” Fitz choked out. “You’ve gone mad, Simmons!”

“Not naked, no, but I can’t very well help  you through those.” She gestured to his tac trousers and their many pockets.

“Don’t look,” he grumbled, and though she snorted she turned around while he shucked off his trousers, socks, shoes, and turtleneck, leaving him in just an undershirt and boxers.

“Where do you want me?” he asked miserably.

Jemma pushed a button so a solid, sterile covering extended overtop the holotable. “Do you need a hand, or can you get up on your own?”

She wasn’t sure why he blushed so furiously at  _ that _ comment, of all things, but he muttered something and clambered onto the table awkwardly, crawling forward on his knees until he could lay down, fully stretched out.

“It’s not too hard, is it?” she asked anxiously. “Do you want something to cushion your --  _ you know _ \--”

“ _ Simmons _ .”

“You’re sure you don’t want this off?” She plucked at his undershirt.

“You’re not an actual masseuse, Simmons, you can manage,” he snapped.

“Right then.” Jemma hesitated, her hands extended over his back. This was a bit stranger than she’d anticipated. The last time she’d seen Fitz in his boxers, he’d been  _ very _ drunk...

She took off her labcoat so it wouldn’t brush against Fitz as she leaned over him, then stepped up to stand beside him. His face was turned away from her.

He tensed up under her touch when her fingers gently started working his shoulders. “Your hands are freezing.”

“Sorry,” she murmured, wincing. “It’ll get better, I promise.”

He  _ was _ very tight in the shoulders. She dug into them with her thumbs while kneading the sides of his neck with her other fingers. She thought she heard him moan slightly and she smiled in triumph.

_ His  _ skin was very warm -- and not in a feverish, concerning way, either, but a comforting warmth. She lingered a bit on his pectorals, allowing her hands to take some of his heat and enjoying the way he slowly,  _ very _ slowly, relaxed under her ministrations.

Then she started working her way down his back. She kneaded in a circle around his shoulder blades, responding to the small noises he made as an indication of what he did and didn’t like. She leaned over him to see that his eyes were closed. He looked quite peaceful, really.

She trailed her fingers down his undershirt, pressing on either side of his spine, where she knew the muscles did a lot of work. His vertebrae jutted up against her hands, a strange reminder of the fragility of her best friend.

All too soon, it was time. She’d traced and retraced her paths across his back, but eventually Jemma couldn’t put it off any longer.

She took a deep breath and pressed her fingers firmly against the skin where his back started arching up into his bum. Quite a nice bum, too -- at least, that was her professional opinion, as someone with extensive anatomical knowledge. Round and perky and--

“Which cheek was it?” she asked, hoping her voice was no higher than normal.

“Hmm?” Fitz lifted his head blearily as if waking from a dream. “Oh, the, uh, the left one.”

Jemma had been working the right one, eyes trained on the far wall so she couldn’t see how the flesh shifted under her fingers, but now she looked down, carefully raising her hands so they wouldn’t dip into the valley between his cheeks, and set to work on the injured one.

Fitz hissed in pain. “Yeah, right there.”

“Here?” She blushed as she had to almost pinch his bum to keep it in place while she focused on the spot he’d indicated.

“Mm.” He set his head back down. Jemma snorted softly to herself -- of course he was enjoying this.  _ Men _ .

Though, she thought as she became distracted again by the feel of his warm body under her hands and the... warming effects it was having on her own person, she was enjoying it a bit too much as well.

“Well hoooooly shit.”

Jemma’s hands froze on Fitz’s arse as they both looked up to see Skye standing at the back of the lab, smiling as widely as was possible with her jaw dropped that far.

Jemma took a huge step back while Fitz scrambled off the table.

“Thanks, Simmons. That feels much better.”

“You should try to keep working it yourself -- to make sure it’s properly relaxed--” She called after him as he fairly sprinted for the exit, clutching his clothes conspicuously in front of his crotch.

“What was that?” Skye demanded, gaping at Jemma, eyes sparkling with mirth.

“As the closest thing this plane has to a doctor, I was caring for a patient,” Jemma snipped back, lips pursed.

“Mhm. You gonna massage my ass next?”

“Shut up.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHHA  
> Come laugh with me on Tumblr -- I'm grapehyasynth there as well!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for anon

When they arrive at Providence after a depressing afternoon spent trekking through the Canadian wilderness, Fitz is more than ready to ask Koenig to direct him to the nearest supply of SHIELD-issue snacks and eat them on a couch somewhere until he falls asleep with a crisp still hanging from his lips. But Jemma drags him with her to the kitchen.

“Who knows when we’ll next have a real meal,” she reminds him briskly, rummaging through the refrigerator.

“I know, I know,” Fitz grumbles. He starts opening cabinets to look for plates.

“Everything’s up in the air now. We have to fend for ourselves.”

He accepts a tub of mayonnaise and a plastic bag of lettuce from her without comment; he recognizes when she’s babbling more to reassure herself than him.  

“We’ll need to be absolutely survivalist from now on.”

“Glad you’ve been living a lush, care-free life with SHIELD thus far,” he can’t resist muttering as some condiments and a suspiciously squishy cheese are passed his way.

“You know what I _mean_ ,” Jemma sighs, shutting the refrigerator and turning his way. “Things have gotten a bit more – _owwww_!”

She’s run head-on into one of the cabinets Fitz had open a second before.

“Shite, Simmons, I—”

“That is the _first rule_ of kitchen safety!” Jemma groans. “Is there a bump? Can you see a bump? I wonder what pain-relievers they keep in storage here.”

“Alright, let me have a look before you start over-medicating,” Fitz says in lieu of an apology.

Jemma tilts her head obediently towards him, and he instinctively inhales, the scent of her shampoo faint after a day spent under a woolen hat, but even mixed with her sweat it’s somehow settling, familiar, comforting in these stark surroundings.

“I don’t _see_ anything,” he murmurs, gently shifting through her hair.

“Doesn’t mean you haven’t done irreparable damage,” she grumbles. “Wouldn’t be surprised if I— Oh!”

“What?” Fitz asks quickly, withdrawing his hands a bit. “Did that hurt? Here? Or here?” He retraces his path gingerly.

“No, it didn’t hurt, it—” Her head twitches like she wants to look up at him. “It actually felt good.”

“You’re fine, you big baby,” Fitz chuckles.

“Please, Fitz, look again, would you?” Jemma urges, shuffling forward a few steps so the top of her head is almost pressed into Fitz’s chin. “The last thing this team needs now is their top scientist—”

“Oi!”

“-- _One of_ their top scientists brought down by a head injury.”

Fitz sighs. They’re both stubborn enough to continue this all evening, but he’s got a warm bed – or at least a couch – waiting to receive his tired body.

“Tell you what,” he says soothingly, taking Jemma by the shoulders and turning her to face the counter. “I’ll check your head while _you_ prepare our sandwiches.”

“That hardly seems fair, seeing as _you_ were the one who injured me in the first place.”

“I’ll check your head _and_ give you a little head massage.”

Jemma cocks her head around to look at him shrewdly. “And shoulders?”

He scowls. “Fine.”

She pats his chest and faces the counter again, already reaching to open the bag of bread.

“Don’t make any surprise movements,” she warns him before he’s even touched her head again. “I have a sharp knife and if I get a concussion _and_ lose a finger on the same day, I _will_ turn you over to Hydra.”

He’s tempted to tug the ends of her hair in childish retribution for her scolding, but she actually does have a knife, so he contorts his face at the back of her head and settles his finger on her hair again. He’s not _quite_ tall enough for this to be exactly comfortable – it’d be better if she were sitting, but then he wouldn’t be getting dinner out of the deal.

He starts at her part, running his fingertips down each side from the little line of scalp. He feels her shift in front of him as he passes over her temples and he catalogues the reaction. Still not getting any hint of a bump, he reaches up and over, using just the index finger of each hand to trace along her hairline back over her temples – it’s almost a shiver this time – until he can tuck her hair behind her ears.

He runs his hands overtop her hair a few times, smoothing it from the top of her head down towards her shoulders, rather enjoying its smoothness and the little bump of her ears and the way her hair swoops in when he reaches her neck. Then, thinking about the way she always works her hands through her hair after it’s been up in the lab all day, he slides his hands under the top layers until his fingertips make contact with her scalp.

Jemma makes some kind of noise, audible even over the cracking of lettuce ribs. Fitz freezes for a second, before a slow grin works its way across his face. That’s definitely not where Jemma hit her head, so she’s not in pain. In fact, he thinks she’s enjoying it. _A lot_.

He scratches his fingers upwards, dragging across her scalp until she’s leaning back into his hands. He’d bet anything she’s got her eyes closed and would be purring like a cat, if she could. He lets his hands trail downwards again, still under her hair, then back up, this time moving in a circular upwards motion.

On his next downward pass, his hands leave her hair entirely, and Jemma starts to protest, but then he presses his thumbs into the bottom of her neck and she leans forward, catching herself on the counter.

“You’re tense,” Fitz says – he does _not_ whisper, that would be too much right now – as he spreads his hands over her shoulders and works the muscles there even as he kneads her neck.

“I’m not the only one,” Jemma scoffs, her voice … off. (Maybe she did have a concussion.) “It’s a stressful time for all of us.”

“But you don’t have to carry all of it,” he reminds her. “I know how you can be, always trying to s--”

“Just – just there,” Jemma interrupts him as his thumb finds a knot beside her shoulderblade. “Ooh, that hurts.”

“D’you want me to—”

“Keep going,” she urges him, not even making any pretense of cutting tomatoes now.

He’s afraid to go too far to the side of her back, as that would bring him nearer her chest, and he’s not even sure what to do when he encounters her bra, so he settles for concentrating on the muscles along the spine, a relatively safe and important area. He presses his thumbs into the tightness there, encouraged by occasional soft noises from Jemma. Somewhere along here is the scar from her scoliosis surgery – not that he’d feel it. Every few passes he moves back up to massage her shoulders until they feel as loose as one could expect from a SHIELD agent on the run from Hydra.

And with every few passes, his hands drift lower, as the firmness of her upper back gives way to the more fleshy curves flaring out from her waist.

He hesitates just above her bum. She hasn’t stopped him – not that she seems entirely lucid at the moment, nearly limp under his ministrations – and the lower back is certainly an area in which many people hold a great deal of stress and tension, but it’s just – a bit too close to –

Just then, Jemma sighs and turns, Fitz’s hands brushing across her stomach before he can move back.

“That was really lovely, actually, thank you, Fitz. Always knew you were good with your hands, of course.”

She blinks at him innocently, seemingly unaware of the insinuation of that comment or the sluggishness of Fitz’s brain as he tries to catch up.

“Sandwich?”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr! I'm grapehyasynth over there as well. 
> 
> All anatomy facts pulled from the internet. Feel free to comment/message me with corrections! 
> 
> This is currently a one-shot but...if it's successful... I could be persuaded to add a sequel..


End file.
